


Boxes

by Lyrica (LyricaB)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: holmestice, Gift Exchange, M/M, Winter Solstice 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/Lyrica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i> The only uncovered flat surface in the room is the bed. Even on John’s bedside table, the alarm clock and his computer sit atop stacks of the books he unpacked yesterday. He hadn’t intended to unpack books, not until he’d actually cleared a path to the bookcase, but...he’d been hoping he’d find his missing pants at the bottom of the box. </i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>Possibly, the state of the room says something deep and existential about the state of his life, the boxes both clutter and metaphor for the stagnation through which he wades everyday. Since he moved back into 221B, he’s felt as though he’s in limbo. His life and his heart, still packed up in boxes. Balanced, precariously, on a knife edge, waiting. Waiting. For what, he doesn’t know. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/gifts).



>   
>  _For[HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna), for the Holmestice Winter Solstice Gift Exchange 2015, who requested Holmes/Watson and said she couldn’t decide what she wanted or didn’t want and is the ‘worst’ at requesting. _   
>    
>  _HL, you may see it as ‘worst’, but I saw it as ‘great’. The lack of limitations in your request made it easy for me to write for you. Since I’m the queen of TMI where exchanges are concerned, I’ll remember your easy-going style the next time I’m writing a request for myself. Happy Solstice and I hope you enjoy! (P.S. Sorry it’s not more explicit. I tried to make it more smutty, but the characters just didn’t want to cooperate.)_   
>    
>  _Thanks to my wonderful betas,[Wendymr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr) and [Atropos_lee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Atropos_lee/pseuds/Atropos_lee), whose corrections, comments and suggestions made this story better, and whose questions made the plot stronger. I appreciate all your help!!!_

  
  


* * *

  
  


> Photographs and memories,  
>  Christmas cards you sent to me,  
>  All that I have are these  
>  To remember you.  
>                                  ~ _Jim Croce_  
> 

 

John’s huffing and completely frustrated by the time he gets to the top of the stairs. Back complaining, feet tired, fingers an odd combination of tingling and numb from the weight of the bags he’s just carried all the way home from the supermarket.

He’s just stood, banging his foot on the door of 221B, waiting in vain for someone to answer. He’s sure Mrs Hudson is out, and he’s equally sure Sherlock is home and just ignoring him. It’s not like he wasn’t loud enough to be heard, because the woman across the street had opened her door and glared at him. So he’d given up and juggled bags and keys to get the door open. 

After all that, he doesn’t even bother to thump on the door of the flat. Just goes through his routine of standing on one foot, bracing bags with his upraised knee, twisting his arm up at an impossible angle to fumble with the doorknob on the door that opens directly into the kitchen. If it’s locked, he thinks he may just drop bread and milk and vegetables (and the ginger cake that called to him from across the aisle and had his mouth watering) on the floor and leave them where he’s standing. Go back out for a beer instead of going in and making tea. But the knob finally turns in his numb grip, then clicks open. 

He turns and bumps the door open with his arse with maybe a bit more gusto than is necessary. It swings all the way back and bangs the wall with a satisfying thump that perfectly mirrors his annoyance. 

The wild swing of the door ripples the papers spread across the entire surface of the kitchen table.  
Sherlock, sitting at the table in the chair nearest the door (where he definitely could hear John trying to get in both downstairs and upstairs), reaches out casually and extends his long fingers across the papers nearest the edge to keep them from flying away. 

“Couldn’t you hear me knocking?” John’s annoyance and frustration raise the tone of his voice an octave. 

Sherlock doesn’t even look up from the file he’s reading. “John...” he rumbles. “Good. We’ll be leaving just after sunset.” 

John stares at him, trying to decide between a grin or a grimace, exasperation warring with admiration for the casual yet elegant picture Sherlock presents. He’s dressed all in black—tight black shirt stretched taut across his chest and shoulders and snug black trousers clinging to his lean thighs; one foot, clad in a black sock, hooked carelessly over a rung of the empty chair beside him. 

John settles for something in between. A _grinace_ , he supposes. His own new word, coined with one person in mind.  
           grin•ace  
           /ˈɡriməs,ɡrəˈmās/  
            _noun_  
           1. an expression combining fond amusement, irritation, and resignation;  
           2. often accompanied by the urge to punch the object of said facial expression right on his patrician nose  
In the Oxford English Dictionary, under the entry for his new word, a footnote would say, ‘See _‘Sherlock Holmes’_.’

“Hello to you, too,” John says, a bit too loudly. “Sorry if I disturbed you with all my noise, banging on the door and all, trying to get _our_ shopping up the stairs.” 

Sherlock glances back at him, just a twist of his long neck, a quick flick of his incredible eyes, before he returns silently to what he’s reading. 

John juggles the shopping bags and tries to retrieve the door with his fingertips, then gives up and shuffles around, catches the edge of door with his foot, and shoves it closed. The bang is louder this time and not quite as accidental as the first one, but just as satisfying. 

Sherlock holds his papers down again and doesn’t even bother to look up. 

John gives in to the grin. It’s not like he didn’t know, from previous experience, what living with Sherlock was like. It’s not like he moved back into the flat blindly. John sighs—something he catches himself doing a lot these days—as he struggles over and dumps the bags on the counter. 

Though there had been those few weeks when alien-pod-Sherlock had been flitting around... That had been kind of nice, in a bewildering, changeling sort of way. 

After his marriage to Mary had died its unnatural death, and John had mentioned that he wasn’t keen to keep living alone in their house, Sherlock had been almost puppyish in his eagerness for John to move back into the flat. For the week or so John took to make up his mind, and the first few days after John moved back in, Sherlock had been on such good behaviour that it had been disconcerting. Sherlock had still snarked at Donovan, talked down his nose in that disdainful tone to Greg, but with John, Sherlock had been polite and attentive. And in the flat...he’d cleaned up after himself, left no body parts in the fridge, didn’t walk on the furniture.

It had been so noticeable that John had joked, _‘Okay, where have you hidden the alien pod? Not that I mind pod-person-Sherlock. I mean, it’s nice not to wonder whether the fork I’m using has previously speared an eyeball, or whether I should disinfect my toothbrush before I use it. And last night, just you and me and Mycroft’s really good brandy—does he know you stole that, by the way?—and civil conversation, that was great. But where’s the real Sherlock?’_

Sherlock had looked at him, affronted, and said only, _‘People change, John.’_

John tugs off his coat and tosses it in the general direction of his chair. No point in hanging it up when he’s just going to have to go back out in an hour or so. 

Of course, that pod-person-Sherlock thing hadn’t lasted long. Within a few days of mentioning it, John had realized he’d spoken too soon. Some of the old traits had begun to slip back in. Sherlock had broken into John’s computer rather than walk the few metres to his bedroom and retrieve his own. And he’d disappeared for several hours a couple of nights in a row. He’d left a smelly, probably toxic experiment percolating on the kitchen table for three days. And then Greg had called, wanting their help with another case, and the old Sherlock (focused, manic, maniacal, socially clueless, oblivious, going over the furniture instead of around) had made a full reappearance. It was like Sherlock had been on good behaviour while he was enticing John to move back in, and once that started to slip away, all it had taken to shove him the rest of the way back to normality was the excuse of a case. What passed for normal in Sherlock’s world, anyway. 

And, for the most part, that’s been okay. There’s no denying that the Sherlock who would have answered John’s banging on the door and helped carry the shopping was nice. But there’s something comforting in this more familiar Sherlock, too. 

Though it has added to the niggling sense of déjà vu that won’t leave John alone. That sense that sneaks up on him...sometimes, when he’s not looking...that his life is running in reverse. Instead of moving forward, he’s moving backwards. 

Or maybe...he’s not moving at all. Sometimes...it’s like he’s standing still, and the last two and a half years didn’t even happen. Which, really—considering everything that occurred—isn’t that bad an idea. There’s very little of the last two and half years that he wouldn’t be pleased to let go. 

But that’s not the nature of memory and fallout, so he supposes he’ll just have to keep slogging on. At some point, he’ll get back to a place of equilibrium. Maybe. Until then, there’s an annoying kind of comfort in falling back on old behaviours, old ways of doing things. 

As John opens the fridge and puts away the cold items (still no body parts in sight, thankfully), he grumbles, “My day was fine, thanks. Not too busy at the clinic, though Tesco was a madhouse. But, otherwise, my day was fine. Nice of you to ask. And yours?” 

“Uhmmm...” Sherlock responds, _still_ not looking up. He takes a handful of papers and drops them on the floor, then spreads another stack out like a hand of cards. 

John makes quick work of putting the remainder of the shopping into the cabinets, fills the kettle, sets up mugs and teabags. Cuts slices of the ginger cake and puts it on napkins, regretting that he didn’t think to buy custard to go with it. Then he props up on the counter while he waits for the kettle to boil. “You know...” He addresses the top of Sherlock’s curly head. “I think I might give it a miss tonight. I’m still living out of boxes. I need to finish unpacking and do laundry.” 

Sherlock shuffles the pages he’s holding. 

John leans closer and squints. Witness statements. Sherlock really is getting desperate, going over the witness statements again. They’ve been almost a week on the case. Sherlock had rated it a four at best, and in a bored, condescending tone, assured Greg it would probably be wrapped up in a couple of days. But the solution has eluded them, and Sherlock has taken it as a personal affront. They’ve spent days on interviews and research, nights lurking in alleys and under bridges, trying to find the witness whom Sherlock has pinpointed as the key to the whole mystery. 

John turns and pours hot water into the mugs, then gets the milk from the fridge. “What the hell did you and Greg do to my clothes when you helped me pack, anyway? My shirts look like they’ve been tied in knots. My socks are shuffled in with the other stuff, but not in pairs. All I’ve got clean and halfway unwrinkled for tomorrow is a red jumper and a blue and green check shirt. And green socks. Not matching green socks, mind you. A light green one and a dark green one. And I _still_ haven’t found my pants.”

Sherlock hums again, as noncommittal—or maybe it’s simply disinterested—as he was the first few times John complained about the subject, and drops another stack of papers on the floor. “You should wear black tonight. You might as well have been carrying a lit torch with the shirt you had on last night.” He flicks imaginary lint from the cuff of his immaculate silk shirt. 

John’s not sure whether it’s a commentary on the horrid colour combination he’s just mentioned or his previous night’s choice of costume for lurking under a bridge. 

John sighs as he adds milk to the tea, then puts the milk away. “My black jeans and shirt are too crusted with dried mud to even put in the hamper. That’s what I was wearing two nights ago when I slid down that embankment to keep you from falling into the Thames. I can’t wear black again until I _do laundry_.” 

“I wouldn’t have fallen,” Sherlock says mildly, _still_ not looking up as he accepts the cup of tea John hands him. John shifts a couple of files to put down a napkin containing a slice of cake. 

Sherlock peers at it and mumbles something that sounds like ‘thanks’ as he shuffles under the papers and pulls out a map. 

John sips his tea and looks over Sherlock’s shoulder. The map is dotted with large red X’s. There are way too many marks to be only the places he and Sherlock have staked-out, so some of Sherlock’s homeless network, or maybe some of Greg’s coppers, must be covering other areas. 

Sherlock taps a spot on the map, one already marked with an X. “We’ll do Vauxhall Arches again tonight, I think.” 

“Did you hear anything I said, about unpacking and washing my clothes?” 

“What?” Sherlock breaks off a piece of cake, then forgets to put it in his mouth as he peers at the map. 

John shakes his head and sighs. He balances his cake on top of his cup and cradles everything in both hands as he heads up the stairs. Then sighs again as he stands in the doorway and surveys his bedroom. 

It’s been almost three months since he and Mary split up, almost four weeks since he moved back to 221B, and it still looks less like a living space and more like a messy storage locker with a bed. Between the clinic and Sherlock dragging him along on cases, there’s simply been no time for something as, _'Mundane, John,’_ (he can hear Sherlock’s sniff of disdain) as unpacking.

John crosses over and makes a space on his bedside table for his tea and cake. 

The only uncovered flat surface in the room is the bed. Even on his bedside table, the alarm clock and his computer sit atop stacks of the books he unpacked yesterday. He hadn’t intended to unpack books, not until he’d actually cleared a path to the bookcase, but...he’d been hoping he’d find his pants at the bottom of the box. 

Possibly, the state of his bedroom says something deep and existential about the state of his life, the boxes both clutter and metaphor for the stagnation through which he wades everyday. It’s good and it’s safe and it’s comfortable here (or it would be comfortable, if he had clean clothes and could move more than a couple of feet without stepping over a box), and he should be feeling better since moving back, but instead it feels like he’s in limbo. His life and his heart, still packed up in boxes. Balanced, precariously, on a knife edge, waiting. Waiting. For what, he doesn’t know. 

This room is the last place he can remember being truly happy and content for a significant length of time. There were days, even weeks, during his and Mary’s honeymoon period and a very short period after their reconciliation when he’s sure he must have been happy and content, but those memories are all suspect now. Murky with lies and deceit. With all of that behind him, it seems as if he should be happy and content again. But all he really feels is trapped. Boxed in. 

He shifts a couple of boxes of books over towards the bookcase, grunting as he lifts one to stack it. Then, pleased with even the small area of floor he’s just cleared, he shifts a couple more, and that’s even better. 

Maybe it’s only the lack of order that’s contributing to his unsettled frame of mind. Or maybe it’s just that, instead of moving forward to something new, he’d jumped back into the old whirlwind way of living his personal life on the fringes of Sherlock and this week’s case, of putting his life and his needs on hold. 

Sometimes, it feels as if he never left 221B. That all that happened in between living here last time and moving back this time was a long, drawn-out nightmare from which he’ll wake at any moment. And then he’ll start moving again. Forward to something...he’s not sure what. Just...something different. Something that feels like living. 

He turns slowly in a circle, looking for another box that can be shifted into the stacks he’s beginning to build. 

Except for the bed, everything in the room—dresser, chest of drawers, the small bookcase—is covered with unpacked boxes. Even the top drawer of the chest of drawers is open and has a couple of the smaller boxes toppled into it. The small table and chair, all that he kept of the furniture he and Mary bought together, fits as he thought it would, perfectly just under the window. 

In fact, it fits into the room better than he does at the moment. It’s going to make a cosy and pleasant work space, if he ever gets organized again. Right now, though, the desk has become a makeshift laundry basket. It’s stacked with jumpers and shirts and trousers too rumpled to wear, and the chair is draped with the mismatched socks he’s pulled out as he rifled through boxes trying to find un-rumpled outfits that match. 

Where the hell had he accumulated all this _stuff_? He knows it didn’t take this many boxes to move out of this room after... _After_. But then, most things from those first few weeks after Sherlock jumped are a blur. John doesn’t really remember the actual, physical act of moving. He doesn’t really remember the boxes, except as something into which he threw what was left of his life. 

The pain of that time, the grief that was like something had ripped lose in him, leaving him to slowly bleed out...the memory of that’s all still as sharp as the day it happened. But how he’d managed to move through those days—sleeping, eating, talking, breathing, packing his life into boxes—all while carrying the weight of that grief...that’s still kind of fuzzy. 

He remembers that he’d barely been able to stay in the empty flat long enough to box up the essentials. The bright, cheery sunlight streaming through the windows had been an insult. The dust motes hanging motionless in the air without Sherlock’s constant, manic movement to stir them, had been sorrow. The silence, the familiar scents already fading, had been too much a herald of what his life was going to be without Sherlock in it. Still. Grey. Boring. Lonely. Like the interior of an empty box...yawning, shadowed, and barren. An empty life without the promise of anything to fill it. 

A couple of the older boxes, shoved far into the corners and still covered in dust, are from that time. They’re filled with things that hadn’t fit into the small bedsit to which he’d fled. Or things that had such a strong association with Sherlock that they’d been too painful to touch. He’d promised himself he’d return for them. One day, when the pain had dulled. But in the end, it had been almost two years before he’d been able to face the emptiness of the flat, the reminder of all he’d lost. 

John wipes his hands on the seat of his trousers and takes a bite of his cake. It tastes sweet and spicy, every bit as good as his nose told him it would, but...it’s strangely unsatisfying. It’s soft and moist, and yet like chewing sawdust. He takes sip of his tea to wash it down. 

He’s become accustomed to quashing the emotions that flare whenever he thinks of that dreadful day and the grey days after, and of the night he’d looked up and seen Sherlock alive. They’re emotions on the opposite ends of the spectrum: pain beyond bearing, un-containable joy. And colouring it all, anger like lava overflowing a volcano’s edge. But the memories of pain, the flashes of joy all blend and run together like watercolours in the rain. And they’re all, old and new, tinged with red...

Dark red... _Sherlock falling; dark red blood on grey pavement; John’s own voice, so filled with fear and horror that he almost doesn’t recognize it, ‘I’m a doctor, let me through. He’s my friend.’; his heart already crumbling under the pain; that brief touch on a too-still wrist._

And bright red... _Sherlock alive, breathing, smiling, ridiculous painted-on moustache. Bright red blood, proof of life, spurting from his nose after John head-butted him. John’s own savage, furious joy at feeling Sherlock’s warm, living flesh under his hands, at the coppery scent of Sherlock’s blood. No one knows, not even Mary, but the night that Sherlock returned, John had hid in the bathroom of their flat and stared at the blood on his hands. Sherlock’s blood. And he’d sucked it off his fingers, greedy as a vampire for the salt taste, for anything to make it real. To make it seem less like a dream. Sherlock warm and breathing. Bleeding. Alive._

In a mist of dark red, John had boxed up his life and moved on and tried to learn how to breathe again. And, then, months later, with that flare of bright red, with the coppery, salty taste of Sherlock’s blood on his tongue, it had felt like his heart had suddenly starting beating again. 

John takes another deep breath and shoves it all away, the memories, the pain, the colours. _‘What’s done is done’_ , one of the medics who went through boot camp with him was fond of saying, and John’s found himself falling back on it often since Sherlock came back. Since Mary showed herself for who she is. 

Sherlock had done what he’d done. Mary had done what she’d done. And John was the one left to figure out what he could forgive and what he couldn’t. What he could rebuild and what he couldn’t. What he had to box away forever. 

In a weird, time-warping sort of way, their choices—Mary’s and Sherlock’s—have plopped him back down where he started. Back in this room. This boxed-in bedroom that he still hasn’t had time to make his own again. It seems like a long time ago that this room was his. A lifetime ago that he was happy and content here. 

And at the same time, if it wasn’t for the boxes, he could almost imagine he never left. That all that time in between was a dream. A nightmare of pain and grief, deceit and treachery. Months of mourning, months of rebuilding his life, months of loving someone he thought he knew. But had he ever really known Mary? Or had he only loved the person he’d built her up to be in his mind? And how had he not been able to see her for who she was? 

After all, it had taken only a couple of boxes to pack up her possessions and a couple for her clothes when they moved into the house. Shouldn’t the lack of boxes have tipped him off? Even moving from the cramped bedsit to Mary’s place, he’d needed more boxes than that for his belongings. 

He flips open the lid of another box. It’s full of folders and papers. He closes it. He’s planning to discard and shred as he unpacks personal papers, and he’s neither up to tackling that tonight nor is Sherlock likely to give him the time he needs to do it. 

He takes a sip of his tea, then tugs his jumper off over his head, and throws it onto the stack of clothing earmarked for laundry. It’s one of his warmest ones and would be more comfortable for lurking in the damp and cold of the Arches tonight, but it’s light-coloured, sure to provoke Sherlock’s ire. And he’s worn it three times already. It doesn’t _look_ dirty, but it doesn’t _feel_ clean. 

He tugs his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans and his belt out of the loops. Toes off his shoes and realizes he’s wearing one dark green sock and one dark blue one. Huh. Well, that solves one of his problems, at least. He’ll give it a rinse in the sink later, and at least he’ll have matching, clean socks tomorrow. To go with an only slightly rumpled red jumper and the green and blue shirt. He grimaces. He’s going to look like Christmas warmed up. 

He rubs the back of his neck, then scratches his nose as he contemplates the boxes. Might as well get started. Sighs and reminiscing aren’t getting the work done, and he’d promised himself at work today that he’d tackle at least a couple of boxes tonight. And every night, until he’s unpacked, no matter how dire the case is. 

Sherlock will just have to give him a few extra minutes every evening. It’s silly to have the use of only one tiny bedside table and the bed and to still be digging every morning for something to wear. It’s daft to live, feeling like he’s still caught on the edge between past and future. 

But which box first? Not files and paperwork. Not the ones with knickknacks and such, because there’s no place to put any of that until he’s shifted boxes and placed furniture. No more books, even if his pants are possibly hidden underneath. And not the ones with the remainder of his clothing, because he’s already discovered that he might as well just throw all that stuff in the laundry. It’s all too rumpled to wear. In fact... 

He marches over to his desk-to-be and sweeps all the rumpled jumpers and shirts into the nearest box of clothing. Slings the trousers into another. He does the same with the socks—except for the dark green one—just dumps it all in, willy nilly, and stuffs it down. He shoves those boxes over next to the door and stacks them. 

And then he retrieves the stack of books and his computer from his bedside table and arranges them on the desk. He digs into the box of office supplies and finds a cup, pencils, and a notebook. He positions all of it on the desk. Neatens. Straightens. Rearranges until it’s how he wants it. He pulls back the heavy layer of curtains so that what’s left of the watery afternoon sunlight filters through the sheers onto the desktop, then he steps back to admire his new work space. 

There. It’s minor, but it feels like an accomplishment. A reclaiming. A step forward. 

Then, happier, he chooses the two smaller boxes that are nestled in the open drawer of his chest of drawers. Might as well start there. He can’t put anything away until he’s emptied the drawer anyway. 

The bigger of the two is labelled ‘toiletries’ in Greg’s scratchy, barely legible handwriting. Hopefully, it contains shampoo and toothpaste, because he’s been bumming off Sherlock since he came back. He shudders to think what else Greg and Sherlock might have grabbed out of the medicine cabinet at the house. 

It had been no surprise that Greg had offered to help him move. _‘End of marriage therapy’_ , Greg had called it. _‘Take my advice. Leave behind everything you’re done with, including the memories and regrets.’_ Greg’s been through it more than once, and John had been glad of his help and his wisdom. 

But he’d been shocked that Sherlock had not only volunteered to go along, but had actually helped enthusiastically with the packing. John had taken it as a sign of how much Sherlock wanted him to move back in, but with Sherlock, who knows? Maybe he had just wanted deductive insight into the life that John had without him. 

It was Sherlock who had packed up John’s clothing, which is the reason most of his trousers and shirts have to be washed and/or pressed before he can wear them and his jackets have to go to the drycleaner. Sherlock’s packing method consisted of wildly stuffing clothing, clean and dirty together, into boxes and taping them shut with sleeves and hems still peeking through the lids. At the time, rumpled clothes had seemed preferable to having Sherlock shuffling through his personal papers or rifling his bedside stand, so John had allowed him to have at it. Now he realizes he should have insisted on a bit more neatness. 

He smiles, though, remembering Sherlock, elbows flying, tossing jumpers into a box, exclaiming, _‘John! How many of these hideous things do you actually need?’_ John chuckles, remembering how red Greg’s face had turn when he’d opened a drawer to be confronted with John’s collection of colourful silk boxers. _‘Jesus, Watson, I could have lived a lifetime without knowing you wear red silk knickers. I’ll never be able to look at you at a crime scene again!’_

For the hundredth time, John wonders which box contains his underwear. He shudders as he considers that maybe that particular box never made it to the flat. The idea of Greg sitting across his desk from John and Sherlock, grinning, wearing a pair of John’s pants underneath his work-rumpled trousers...well, that’s just perverse. It’s even worse to think of Greg, kicked back and grinning from ear to ear as he invites Donovan to take a peek inside the box that’s sitting on his desk. John can imagine her expression as she uses a pencil to sort through the contents. 

But Greg wouldn’t do that to him, would he? _Would he?_ And if Greg had, wouldn’t John have already heard about it, in sniggers or sotto voce comments, either at a crime scene or at the met, or in a strategically placed photo on a bulletin board? Or, god forbid, in a comment on his blog? 

It was worth it, though, the crumpled clothing and the unpaired socks. Even, John supposes, Donovan having a peek at his knickers, if that’s what’s happened. Having Greg and Sherlock there—ragging on him about his sartorial style (or lack thereof), grunting over how many books he’d accumulated, chortling over what they found behind the bookcase in the living room, complaining about the lack of beer in the fridge—had made it all easier. Greg had been right. It had been therapeutic, and they had certainly helped ease the sadness of boxing up the end of his married life. 

John sets the box labelled ‘toiletries’ just outside the door to be taken downstairs, then carries the smaller of the two boxes over to the bed and sits. He thinks about taking a nap instead of opening it, but settles for another bite of cake and sip of tea, for stretching and twisting his kinked spine. That slide down a muddy slope the other night has left him with a bruise the size of his fist on his hip and achy muscles in his lower back. And the trek home with all the shopping hasn’t helped. 

He pulls the box over against his knee. It has no label on it, just an odd-shaped bald spot on the cardboard where a sticker’s been ripped away. He thought he’d made sure everything was marked up as it was stacked at the door for Angelo’s boys to carry out. ( _‘Angelo’s boys’_ , a misnomer, if ever there was one, for the two husky men who’d driven up in the restaurant’s van and climbed out to help with the moving. And John still hasn’t been told who arranged that. Had to be Sherlock, but all that was said was, _‘It’s been taken care of, Dr Watson’_ , when he tried to pay them for their time and effort.) 

It’s possible that one of Angelo’s boys picked up something that wasn’t his. Or that something Greg or Sherlock packed slipped through his labelling process. 

He rips the tape off the box and opens it. And, odder still, inside the box there’s a smaller box, padded all around with wads of brown paper. 

John tosses the pieces of wadded paper onto the floor and lifts the smaller box out. Throws the empty box in the direction of the door so that he’ll remember to take it down later. The small box is a shoebox, lid held on with two over-sized rubber bands. A small shoebox, for a child’s shoes. His heart gives a lopsided beat, a thump of sadness for the child that wasn’t his. 

Now that it’s all done, he can admit that he wasn’t particularly ready to be a father. But back then, when it was thrust upon him, when he’d still thought Mary was Mary, while he’d believed that the child Mary was carrying was his...the thought of a son or daughter had been exciting. It had been easy to convince himself that, even though he hadn’t chosen it, he was ready for that kind of drastic change. That fatherhood was the next step. That his life had been moving forward. 

His anger flares as he remembers the night Mary confessed her deceit to him. Told him she had cheated, lied. Again. He stops the thought ruthlessly, tamps down on his anger. No point in going over all that. 

But it still hurts, the loss of that tiny life he had come to love. Even knowing that the baby wasn’t his, he’d offered to be a part of his or her life, but Mary had wanted a clean break. And that’s for the best, too, he supposes. But he still thinks of the baby who wasn’t. The one who was to have his eyes and hair and Mary’s smile and Mary’s ears. The child he’ll never cradle against his chest. Who’ll never coo and wave pudgy arms at him as he leans down over the cot. Who’ll never spit up on his favourite jumper. Never take her first steps and fall into his arms. 

Maybe Mary had bought shoes for the baby? But, no. The box is for a child’s shoes, not baby shoes, and it isn’t new. It’s years old and it looks like it’s been through the wringer. The logo on one side is faded and smeared as if it’s been wet. The edges of the lid are worn, one corner crumpled and split, forced back into its original square with wad of tape. 

There’s a piece of paper, fine ivory linen with a watermark, much newer than the box, folded in half, tucked beneath the rubber bands. When John pulls the bands loose, the paper flips out of his fingers, flutters to the floor, and slips out of sight underneath the edge of the bed. Rather than going to the trouble of climbing off the bed and kneeling to retrieve it, he lifts one corner of the lid slowly, carefully, peeking in sideways. 

His caution is carried over from childhood. Whenever he opens a box, he always half expects something to spring out into his face. Too many instances of Harry playing tricks when they were kids. He can still hear her squealing with delight when he’d opened a box, or a can of biscuits, or a jar, and then fall over backwards to avoid whatever spring-loaded thing she’d managed to cram into the container. He’d been an easy-going, gullible child, nearly school-aged before he learned to be cautious about anything she handed him that didn’t have a factory-sealed lid on it. 

But this box reverses that sensation of something leaping out at him. As he eases the lid to the side and peeks inside, instead of something jumping out, it feels like everything is sucked in—light, sound, the breath from his lungs. Instead of falling over backwards, he feels like he’s going to pitch forward. 

The box is full of photographs. Of John. 

The words to a song, old, folksy, start up in his head. _‘Photographs and memories...’_ , but the guitar riff that begins the song and those three words are all that come. He plays it again in his head, but that’s all he can remember. And he knows it’s going to come back later, just the little trail of music and the words, and play in his head until he finds the song on the web and plays it. But right now...a piece of a song doesn’t have the power to break his attention from what he’s holding. 

He reaches into the box without being aware of sending the command to his brain. He fumbles, fingers numb and clumsy, among the images. There are dozens and dozens of photos of him, none of which he recognizes. 

Some are printed on photographic paper, some on what looks like plain computer paper. They’re all different sizes and shapes, from barely larger than a business card to 4x6s, from square to rectangular. Colour photos, though some are grainy and nearly monochrome, the images grey and fading as if they were printed on a bad quality printer with impermanent ink. 

With a shaking hand, John pulls a stack of them out of the box. They slip through his fingers and flutter to the floor. A few land in his lap, and John grabs them before they can fall. 

They’re _all_ of him. 

He stares at them. At the dozens more still in the box. It looks like there are larger prints tucked into the bottom. He can’t see the subject without taking more photos out, but he suspects he doesn’t need to see them to tell what they are. Because all the ones he’s holding in his hands are of _him_. 

It’s...so strange. So bizarre. And he can’t begin to understand what’s happening. All these photos that he had no idea were being taken... All these photos of him as someone he barely recognizes... 

These photos contain the life of another man named John Watson. A stranger who looks somewhat like him. One with grey strands eating away at his blond hair, with dark shadows like bruises under his eyes, and wrinkles emphasizing his down-turned mouth. He’s drinking coffee in a cafe. Sitting beside the Thames. Framed in a doorway. Coming out of the clinic. Getting into a taxi. Shopping at Tesco, wandering the aisles with cans of beans in a basket. And in all of them, his shoulders are hunched as if the weight of bearing his own body is too much for him. 

John pulls another stack from the box, shuffles through them. There’s that other, unfamiliar John Watson with a stranger named Mary Morstan. She looks bright and jolly standing beside him at a bus stop, holding his hand. What doesn’t show in the photo is that her mirth will come to seem brittle and fake; her touch will be false. 

As he shuffles through the photos, pulls more out of the box, he finds a few that aren’t of him. There are pictures of Mrs Hudson out shopping; in the cafe downstairs; coming out of a beauty shop, hand to her hair as if she’s checking that it’s been styled properly. Greg at a press conference, frowning, his brown eyes narrowed in annoyance; peering down at something on the ground at a crime scene; climbing into a car with Donovan. Molly and Mike in front of Bart’s. There’s one postcard, blank, with a beautiful picture of Albert Bridge in the twilight. But mostly, the photos are of John. Going about his daily life. The boring daily life he’s led for the past two years. 

He flips one over. There’s a date written on the back, lightly, in pencil, in a hand he doesn’t recognize. He flips over photo after photo. The dates are all different days of the week, all different months, all within the last year and a half. He goes back to that first stack of photos, the ones in which he barely recognized himself. And, yes, the dates are within the first few months after Sherlock’s faked suicide. 

The inevitable mix of watercolour red—anger, sorrow, relief—flares within him, but with the distraction of the photos, it’s easy to shove it away. 

In a different stack, with later dates, he looks more relaxed, more like himself. The bruised shadows under his eyes and the frown wrinkles have eased. His shoulders are straighter, his eyes are brighter and, sometimes, his lips are turned up in a small smile. 

Towards the bottom of the box, there’s a dog-eared envelope with six photos tucked in it. More of him, going about his daily boring life. Coming out of a cinema, blinking in the bright light. Walking along the street, head ducked and shoulders up to shield his neck from the rain. Backing through the door at the clinic, bag of pastries and cardboard holder overfilled with cups of coffee carefully balanced in his hands. These six are dated in order, just days apart. 

In this box, then, are photos of him, taken (or at least, dated) every few days. For months. Months and months. But taken by whom? And why? To what purpose? 

His skin crawls as he imagines the camera following his progress down the street, sweeping over him, wriggling into every corner of his life. As he imagines someone pouring over the photos, examining them, dissecting his actions and his appearance the way he just has. 

 

This box, all these photos that smack of someone following him for months without him once noticing... This sinister box with the identifying label ripped off... It’s like finding a bomb in his room. Ticking slowly, quietly, as if there’s plenty of time before it goes off, but ticking, just the same. 

Is there some new threat out there...the next Moriarty or Magnussen? Maybe he and Sherlock are in danger! A bullet-sized point at the base of his skull tingles as if there are crosshairs centred on him, and he already has one foot on the floor, pushing off from the bed, ready to run downstairs and check on Sherlock to make sure he’s all right, when he remembers the piece of paper. 

He shoves the stacks of photos aside, not caring that they slip and slide, cascading across the duvet. He slides off the bed and kneels on the floor. His knee crumples a piece of the packing material, and the smell of brown paper drifts up. He shoves aside the remainder of the packing paper and the photos that have fallen, feels around on the floor under the bed until he finds the piece of folded stationary. 

Despite the fear trickling like cold sweat down his spine, he doesn’t open it. He kneels there, holding it unopened in his hand. If this paper contains the whys and wherefores of all these photos, then of course, he has to know. But something doesn’t feel right, and he hesitates, rubbing his forehead while he tries to think. 

These photos seem to have been taken during a specific period of time. He didn’t see any from before Sherlock jumped. There weren’t any of the wedding. The ones of him with Mary were early in their relationship. There were none of them while they were separated the first time. None since. So...not an imminent threat. Unless there are more photos out there somewhere, this is from his past. 

The timing’s wrong for it to have been Moriarty. He was dead before the photos were taken. It definitely could have been Magnussen, but something about it doesn’t feel like his style. And that leaves...Mary. 

But...surveillance of him before she met him? Considering all that he knows about Mary now, it’s possible their meeting was no accident. He’s wondered about that, but he’s never been able to come up with any reason for her to plan what happened between them. It’s much more likely they met accidentally and she seized an excellent opportunity for a cover story, for a disguised life. And he has enough of a sense of self worth to think that whether there was a contrived plan to meet him or not, she really did care for him. Just not enough. Not enough in the long run for her to overcome who she really was. 

But if it was all planned, why would she have continued surveillance once they’d met, once they were living together? Why would she have surveilled herself? And why would the box be here now? Did someone pick it up at the house, not realizing that it wasn’t his? 

Or did it come from somewhere else? From someone more sinister? 

He puts the piece of paper on the floor and rubs his fingers together. The pads of his fingers are tingling. His hands are trembling. He clutches them together to still them. 

But, of course, he has to know. 

All these photos...he can never un-see them, never pretend that he doesn’t know they were taken, that someone looked at them, drank in his life. And he has to know why, even if it’s painful, especially if it’s a threat. There’s no other way to make sure he and Sherlock are safe.

After a moment of silence, of near meditation, and a couple of deep, cleansing, breaths, bracing himself for whatever he might discover, he picks up the note again. From the rich texture of the paper and the elegant, barely visible watermark, it’s very high quality stationary. 

He opens it. 

Words, stark black, leap at him like one of Harry’s springy canned snakes. He reels back, just like he did when he was a kid, and almost bangs his head on the bedside table before he catches himself, hand clutching at the comforter, sending photos slithering across it, and rights himself. A huge gasp of air fills his lungs and stays there, swells as if it’s being superheated in his chest until it feels as if his lungs will burst, and then it gusts back out, rattling the paper he holds clutched in one hand. 

On the creamy ivory linen, written with what has to be a very expensive fountain pen judging by the quality of the strokes and the evenness of the lines, is a note: 

            _Brother Dear,_

_These arrived in my personal post yesterday, bearing no return address  
           but with Buenos Aires postage and cancellation mark. _

_I can only assume that, at some point, you arranged to have them sent on._  
           Knowing your newly acquired penchant for sentimentality, I assumed  
           that you would wish to keep them, or at the very least, dispose of them yourself. 

The note is unsigned, but the salutation and the condescending tone identify the author better than any signature. And John recognises Mycroft’s steady, precise penmanship. 

Questions soar up in John’s mind like a cloud of seagulls at the shore, swooping and diving and cawing for attention. Battering inside his skull until he feels dizzy, and he has to close his eyes and force himself to breathe again. In. Out. In. Out. Until his mind is quieter if not calmer. Until his heart stops thundering and diving, too. 

Now that Mycroft’s name has entered the picture, John looks carefully, more critically, at the photos spread out around him on the floor. Very few of them are high quality. Some are fuzzy and with harsh contrast. In many, the highlights are white and featureless, as if they were taken in bright sunlight with a poor quality camera. Most of the fuzzy, overexposed ones were taken from an elevated vantage point. From London’s street cameras, then. Mycroft’s own personal surveillance system. 

The fear that had stabbed John when he first saw the photos eases. The feeling of sharp claws latching onto the back of his neck eases. The feeling that he’s sitting in the room with a slowly ticking bomb doesn’t. 

John stretches and grabs the envelope on the bed. He’d been more interested in the photos inside when he first pulled it out of the box, but now he turns it over. It’s a Royal Mail pre-paid envelope, addressed to J. Smythe c/o a hotel in San Francisco, California. The address is typed, but the post mark is from a sorting office near Mycroft’s office. 

John scoops up photos off the floor. Shuffles through them. More photos of him, doing everyday things. Eating chips as he walks along a busy street. Stopping outside the corner shop to scrutinize his receipt. Hailing a taxi. 

There’s one, though, that’s really nice, and he drops the others to hold it closer. He’s sitting on a bench in the sunshine. He recognizes the park. It’s the one near Bart’s where he ran into Mike all those years ago, the fateful day that he met Sherlock and his whole life changed. 

This photo...he flips it over...was taken almost 18 months ago. He doesn’t remember the day specifically. It’s just a day out of many days all run together, though obviously a little less grey than most during that time. In this one, he has a triangular sandwich box in one hand, unopened, and a bottle of water in the other. He’s wearing a striped shirt, open at the throat, and his jacket is folded across his lap. His head is tipped back to the sun, eyes closed, and he looks sad, but peaceful. The frown lines around his eyes and mouth aren’t so prominent in this one. 

All those badly composed, badly printed photos obviously taken from street cameras...those John can figure out. Not the why, but at least the how. Mycroft’s been keeping tabs on him.

But this photograph throws the whole theory into question. This is a real photograph, not an inkjet print on plain paper taken from CCTV. It’s a 4x6 colour shot, professionally processed on photographic paper. It’s dog-eared and creased down the middle from being folded in half, and curved along one edge as if it’s been carried in a pocket or wallet for a very long time. 

Moments later, or maybe hours later, he’s still looking at it, unblinking, as if his dive-bombing, cawing thoughts can deduce its journey—who took it, why, where it’s been, in whose pocket, those he’s pretty sure he can guess the answer to that one, but not _why, why, why_ —when the door swings wide. 

John hasn’t even realized how dark the room has grown, grey light almost gone from behind the sheer curtain, until the yellow light from the tiny landing outside his bedroom floods in. It blinds him momentarily, and he blinks against it. 

“John, didn’t you hear me calling you?” Sherlock demands. “We need to be—” Sherlock’s voice cuts off sharply, words swallowed by a quick hitch of breath. Then Sherlock steps fully into the doorway, blocking out most of the light.

John blinks up at the tall, slender silhouette. Breathes in the cool, familiar scent of Sherlock, bright, clean soap, and underneath, chemicals and ink, the treacle and pine tree scent of rosin. 

Sherlock steps into the room, and light floods in again, washing over John. He stays where he is, kneeling on the floor beside his bed within a haphazard circle of photos and clumps of brown paper, the one photo and Mycroft’s note still clutched in his hands. 

John holds them up. “I was going to unpack a couple of boxes,” he says, surprised at how even and calm his voice is. Seems like he should sound the way he feels, as if the floor has just fallen out from under him and he’s hanging, by only fingernails and willpower, onto crumbling rafters. “I started with this small one, but...it’s not mine.” 

Sherlock stands frozen above him, his face hidden in shadow. 

“I suppose one of Angelo’s boys must have carried it up here by mistake. Though I can’t imagine the box was just sitting downstairs, in plain sight...” John stands, photos falling from where they’ve been laying on his thighs. His voice is as soft as the dying pink and orange light outside the window. There’s no tension in it. No censure. No emotion. He’s sunk too far into shock to feel anything other than light and float-y. 

As if they’re on opposite ends of a seesaw, as John rises Sherlock drops down, sinking gracefully to his knees. He lifts first one photo then another, staring at each one as if he’s never seen it before, gathering them up with his long fingers. His hands are steady, his shoulders bowed, face hidden. 

John turns on the small lamp on his bedside table, but all he can see is the top of Sherlock’s head. Soft, coffee-coloured curls gleaming in the light. 

His fingertips have gone numb, but feeling is starting to creep back into his gut. It’s feathery soft and quivering. Starting to heat, like coals starting to glow just moments before they flare into fire. He can’t stop that same heat from edging into his voice. “What the bloody hell, Sherlock?”

He resists the urge to reach down, thread his fingers through the thick strands of Sherlock’s hair, and use his grip to yank Sherlock’s head back. To force Sherlock to meet his gaze, to face him. Instead he thrusts the photo and Mycroft’s note under Sherlock’s nose, rattling it, and demands, “What the hell?” 

Sherlock ignores the photo and note. He gathers up all the photos from the floor, stacking them carefully. 

John expects him to rise, toss the photos onto the bed. To be dismissive and disdainful. He’s sure Sherlock is using this pretence of scrutinizing and neatening the photos to try to come up with a way to brazen his way through John’s growing anger. 

But John’s not having any of that. He wants answers. His fingers curl, clenching into a fist, and he rocks onto the balls of his feet, prepared to dart sideways and block any attempt to flee. 

But Sherlock barely moves at all. He stares at the photos in his hands, then slowly looks up. His face is flushed, his pupils contracted. Even in the dim light, John can see that Sherlock’s eyes are all bluish green/gold, wide and exposed. 

From the day John met Sherlock, the first moment John saw him, John’s thought Sherlock has the most gorgeous, outrageously expressive eyes he’s ever seen. From one moment to the next, there’s no predicting what colour they’ll appear to be or what emotion they’ll reflect. And even through his feathery shock, it hurts John to see them so filled with trepidation. It cools the anger that’s bubbling behind his navel. 

He reaches down for Sherlock’s elbow, draws him up with one hand while he pushes photos away with the other, clearing enough space for them to sit, side by side, on the edge of his bed. 

Without resistance, Sherlock follows the pressure of John’s fingers, moving gracefully to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. 

So he’s getting new Sherlock then, just now. Not the old one who would have dismissed him, quickly, contemptuously, if John asked something he didn’t want to answer. 

“Just tell me,” John says, shoving the photo and note into Sherlock’s hands. “Just...explain it.” 

Sherlock swallows, his throat moving so elegantly it belies his obvious disquiet. He looks at the stack of photos in his hand, shuffles through several of them. He glances at Mycroft’s note, his lip curling slightly in that way he has whenever he’s reminded of his brother. Then he puts all of it aside on the bed. 

John shifts back, sliding far enough back that his calves are pressed against the side of the bed, that he’d have to point his toes to touch the floor. “You’ve had me under surveillance?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn’t slide back with John. He sits perched on the edge of the mattress, hands clutching at his knees, head down. “No,” he says finally. “It’s not what you think.” 

Annoyance flares. “What I think? What does that mean? How do you know what I think? _I_ don’t know what I think! Who’s been following me? Watching me? Was it Mary? Magnussen?” 

But, no, cancel that. John’s shaking his head, even as he says it. He’s not thinking clearly. He already knows it was Mycroft. There’s the note. And all those damned traffic cameras, dancing to the tune of Mycroft’s too smooth, too polite voice.

As if it happened yesterday, a memory floods John’s mind. _It’s night, and he’s in a phone box, in an area of the city that he doesn’t know. He’s been stranded in a misting rain at a crime scene by the odd, brilliant man he just met. A snarky sergeant has told him his new acquaintance is a dangerous psychopath. His leg is aching from the dampness and the walk. The greasy, unhealthy smell of frying food mixes with the scent of wet asphalt. And a stranger’s sinister voice, crackly and tinny on the payphone, demands to know whether John can see the cameras that shift and turn as the man identifies each one._

John drags himself away from the memory, back to the present. “Why do you have all these pictures? Who took them?” 

Sherlock shakes his head, still not looking at John, and lifts a hand, like he’s asking for... What? Quiet? Time? Forgiveness before he’s even explained? 

John’s gut gurgles, loud in the too quiet room, but it’s not from hunger. It’s because his insides are churning, muscles rippling with tension. The few bites of cake that he’s had feel like pebbles vibrating in his stomach. John presses the heel of his hand into his navel. He doesn’t know whether he’s more angry or horrified. Or disgusted. Or creeped out. 

How could he have not sensed the cameras turning as he passed by? How could he have not known that someone was tailing him? Watching every moment of his life? Is this all of the photos? What else does Mycroft have photos of? How far into his life does this invasion reach? Are there more photos somewhere, in some file stamped ‘Top Secret’ in big red letters, of more private moments? 

He blows out a breath and tries to silence his mind and hold back the impetuous, angry words that are threatening to tumble from his mouth. He needs to be calm. To talk is to fan the flames of the fury that’s threatening to catch fire in his gut. Best to wait until he untangles what he’s feeling. Until he hears what Sherlock has to say. 

But there’s no way the explanation can be anything good... 

He takes a deep, deep breath, air sifting all the way down into his lungs, and lets it out slowly. “Just... Just tell me.” His voice is flat, showing none of the anger, the foreboding, that he’s feeling. 

Sherlock nods as if he understands the control John’s exerting over himself, over his voice. As if he’s grateful for the reprieve. “Mycroft took them—or rather, he had them taken.” 

“Why?” 

Sherlock takes a deep breath of his own. His jaw works, but no words come out. 

“Sherlock!” John insists, voice sharpening. 

Sherlock turns his head away so that John can’t see even the side of his face. And he mumbles, low and unintelligible, towards the dark rectangle of the window. 

John shifts. “What? I didn’t hear you.” 

And Sherlock mumbles again. 

John taps Sherlock’s shoulder, gives his upper arm a little tweak to indicate he should turn back. Sherlock’s tricep is as hard as steel under his fingers. “I can’t understand what you’re saying!”

Sherlock settles back to his original position, facing forward. 

John still can’t see more than a partial profile, but at least, this time he can understand the two words Sherlock utters. “For me.” 

The muscles in John’s arms and across his back clamp down. He sucks in a breath of air and forces himself to relax. Forces his jaw to unclench. “Mycroft took all these pictures for you? Why?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. Almost glances back at John, but stops himself. 

Still, it’s enough for John to see a glimpse of the flush on Sherlock’s prominent cheekbones, for John to see the way Sherlock licks his lips nervously. The way he’s striving to settle his expression into something neutral. 

John edges forward a bit. “I’m not going to let this go, so you might as well tell me.” 

Sherlock sighs, says reluctantly, “After I...” His tongue sneaks out again, leaves his lips pink and wet. “When I left... I intended to have no contact with...anyone I knew. I planned to be on my own. I thought that would be the best way, the most straightforward way, to accomplish what needed to be done.” 

“ _‘Alone is what I have. Alone protects me’_.” John quotes the words verbatim, his voice bitter. Still, after all this time, accusing. Dark red flickers at the edges of his mind. 

Sherlock flinches. His fingers curl into a fist. “Yes,” he whispers. “So I thought.” 

John says nothing. The silence draws out, long and uncomfortable, but he waits. Waits for the explanation he’s due. 

But Sherlock says nothing, only sits there, fist clenched on his thigh. Shoulders as tight as if he’s waiting for a blow to fall. 

Finally, John gives up and asks, “And how does this explain why Mycroft was watching me?” 

“It doesn’t.” Sherlock’s voice is soft and quiet. But then he goes silent again. Stares at the tips of his toes. 

For the first time, John realizes that Sherlock still isn’t wearing shoes. His long feet are clad in only his black socks. That explains why John didn’t hear him until he was at the door. Though Sherlock could have been wearing jackboots and bells, and John probably wouldn’t have heard him through the roaring in his ears. 

Sherlock shifts. The movement sends photos cascading across the duvet behind him. 

John reaches back for one, a glossy 4x6. It’s of him and Greg standing just under the awning at the entrance of a pub. The warm light coming through the windows is glinting on the falling rain. Greg is laughing, just bringing his umbrella down to close it, twirling it in a whir of colour and spraying raindrops. John is shaking the rain off his umbrella, and the black cone is a blur. The motion doesn’t detract from the photo. It actually adds to it, giving it movement and mood. 

Like the one of him on the park bench, it’s a really good photograph, obviously not taken through one of Mycroft’s traffic cams. Which means...whoever was following him that night had a mobile with a damn good camera. Or, more likely, a really good camera and a telephoto lens. And it was someone with an eye for a good shot. “This didn’t come from one of Mycroft’s traffic cameras.” 

Sherlock glances back. “No.” He reaches back and takes the photo from John’s hand. His fingers move on it automatically, thumb fitting to the edge, rubbing up it, curling up to the top corner, back down to the bottom corner. His fingers fall easily into the rhythm, as if it’s something he’d done many times. Hundreds of times. 

So...that other photo, the one John found earlier, isn’t curled from being in someone’s pocket. It’s curled from Sherlock holding it. Tracing the edge with his long fingers. Obsessively.

Sherlock’s voice is husky and tender, nearly a whisper. “Mycroft had it taken for my birthday. He sent it to me last year, along with a tiny birthday cake. It tasted like it was made with sawdust and jelly babies. It’s one of my favourites.” 

His thumb moves rhythmically on the photo. “The photo, not the cake, my favourite,” he clarifies, smiling with a wry little twist of his incredible mouth. “I can almost smell the rain when I look at it. And you and Lestrade, you both look so...relaxed. So happy.” 

The thought of Sherlock, spending his birthday alone in some strange place, with only a small cake and a photo of absent friends for company, sends a wash of pain through John. Sorrow sifts down through him, setting his anger to hissing and guttering like fire in rain. It almost makes him feel guilty for the smile he’s wearing in the photo. 

But even with his anger dissipating into smoky tendrils, there are so many things to consider that John can’t figure out what to look at first. Which question to ask first. He isn’t sure which is the most shocking. That Mycroft has, for months, been pointing his traffic cams at John as he walked down the street. That Mycroft has had a photographer tail him. That John never noticed. And then there’s the revelation that Mycroft’s been sending photos of him to Sherlock almost the whole time Sherlock was gone. And terrible cake. 

Oddly, it’s the idea of Mycroft getting someone, anyone, a tiny birthday cake that’s the strangest of all. It’s the type of sentimental gesture of which John would have never believed him capable. 

John opens his mouth. But all that comes out is a low breath that sounds like it’s caught somewhere behind his breastbone. It rattles along his ribs before lurching free. His mind supplies no words to form a question or even comment. 

John’s hand drifts across the photos spread out on his bed. His whole life, months worth, captured on paper. “All that time...” he finally manages to squeeze past the constriction of his throat. “If only Mycroft had told me. If only you—” 

“No!” Sherlock shakes his head, cutting him off before he can finish the thought. “No, John.” He twists to face John, clutching the photo of John and Greg so tightly it crackles in his fingers. “I know you think he should have told you, or I should have told you, but... One word. If just one word, one suspicion, had been whispered about me, Moriarty’s snipers...” 

Fear clutches at John’s chest, knocks the air loose in his lungs so that it all rushes out at once. He remembers, with a clarity that makes him blink, those red laser sights, centred on him and Sherlock at the pool. The smell of chlorine surges up, thick and cloying, in the back of his throat. He’ll never be able to go near a pool again without feeling nauseated, without anger and fear swelling up in him like something alive and ravening. Unlike all those red memories of Sherlock, this one is blue, like water, and black with rage. He swallows it back, pushes it down, forces his fingers to unclench. He sucks at his cheeks to get enough saliva to wet his tongue. “Snipers? So that was the threat.” 

Sherlock nods. 

After Sherlock had returned, after John had recovered from the worst of his shock and anger, after much shouting and ranting, a few thrown punches, and much cold anger on his part, he’d gotten to the point where he was calm enough to ask Sherlock for an explanation of what he’d done. 

And Sherlock—new, pod-person Sherlock—had told him some of what happened. That he’d faked his own death because John’s and Mrs Hudson’s and Greg’s lives had been threatened. How he’d managed it. That he’d spent all of the time he was gone destroying Moriarty’s network. 

But then, Sherlock had said quietly that he wasn’t ready to talk about the particulars of it, of what he’d done with those two years. He’d asked John for time. 

John had wanted to demand answers, had wanted Sherlock to justify the pain he had been through. But Sherlock had said the one thing that John wouldn’t force his way past. Former Captain John Watson, war veteran, wounded in body and mind, understood not being ready to talk about things that happened in battle. And he’d respected Sherlock’s request for time. 

And he respects it still, but...there’s just one thing he _has_ to know, now. “You took them out? The snipers.” 

Sherlock looks away and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “Mycroft’s men...neutralised...them.” The low, dull fury in his voice tells John how much he regrets that it wasn’t him, personally, who took care of it. “But only after I dealt with the man who would have sent others to take their places. I found him in Spain. Two weeks after...” Sherlock closes his eyes, and his head dips even further. “I know I promised I’d tell you one day. All of it...” 

John nods. He wants to demand a full recounting of details. He wants to know _everything_ , from beginning to end, from the moment Sherlock understood what was happening; to the moment he felt the wind catch in his coat as he stepped off that ledge; to the moment he knew it was safe for him to return to London. John wants to know what happened all those months while he thought Sherlock was dead. 

But John’s seen the scars on Sherlock’s back, the x-ray that shows the healed hairline fracture of Sherlock’s ulna. He’s glimpsed the row of suspiciously rounded scars, like cigarette burns, on Sherlock’s hip. John’s come awake, twice in only the last couple of weeks, to the sounds of Sherlock groaning and shouting in his sleep. He’s felt the cold sweat soaked into the pillow when he ran downstairs and woke Sherlock from his nightmare. 

“No. No, I’m not asking you to tell me now. I understand needing time.” He brushes his fingertips down the back of Sherlock’s arm. Just the barest, gentlest touch on the soft, black silk. Reassurance for both of them. “I do want to hear it all someday, when you’re ready to tell me. _If_ you’re ever ready to tell me. I just wanted to know...that one thing. I can wait for the rest.” John’s voice catches a little. “Can you...just tell me about Mycroft and the photos?” 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. 

Sherlock has shifted enough on the bed that John can see he’s winding himself up to say ‘no’. Can see Sherlock beginning to shake his head, his expression shuttering. There’s something protective, something that sings of denial, in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders, in the way he’s sitting, stretched up tall, spine straight and rigid. Old Sherlock reasserting himself. 

“Really, John,” he begins in that slightly arrogant voice he adopts when he wants to brush away what’s been said, when he doesn’t want to reveal himself, “you just said—”

“You owe me that part, at least,” John interrupts softly. “They’re photos of _me_.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders drop in defeat. A pink flush crawls up his jaw. “Mycroft took them...for me. So that I could stay focused on what I had to accomplish.” 

“I don’t...” John hesitates. He wants to know, but how deeply connected is it with the stuff Sherlock isn’t ready to talk about? “I don’t understand.” 

Sherlock takes another deep breath and nods. Then he slides back on the bed so that’s he nearly shoulder to shoulder with John. “I knew that I had to work alone, to do...what had to be done.” 

John nods. “I got that part.” 

Sherlock twists his lips. It could be a wry smile, but it’s more like a grimace, and when he speaks, it’s with nothing like his usual rapid-fire delivery. His voice is low, halting. Unsure. “Even after Mycroft assured me that the assassins assigned to each of you had been... _removed_...I found I couldn’t contain my unease. I couldn’t sleep. When I did sleep, I had nightmares. I had difficulty...maintaining my focus.” Sherlock stops his faltering confession. Blinks as if he’s surprised how much he’s revealed. Blushes hotter as if he’s ashamed of admitting his weakness. 

John holds his breath, holds absolutely still, afraid Sherlock’s going to stop talking. 

But he doesn’t. “Mycroft realized that I was...distracted. He...deduced what I was experiencing.” Sherlock still clutches the photo of John and Greg. His fingers start to move again, sliding obsessively back and forth along the edge. “He sent me the first photos, thinking that it would help. He thought that if I could see that you were all right, I would be better able to stay focused.” 

Sherlock pauses to look down at the photo. “And it did help. But I could see that you were in pain. Grieving. And so my focus was improved, but my resolve to go on, to continue with the deceit faltered.” He swallows. “And so Mycroft sent more photos, a few every week, when he could. To show me that you were coping. Moving on.” 

John doesn’t even try to soften the dart of anger that shoots through him. “So I have Mycroft to thank for these last two years? If it hadn’t been for him, you would have come home. You would have—” 

“No, John, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Sherlock folds his arms across his chest, leaning forward slightly, tucking his hands under his arms. The photo dangles from his fingers just inches from John’s chest. “It had to be done. Whether I had focus or resolve, I had to go on. All Mycroft was doing was trying to make sure I was moving forward as safely as possible.” 

John sits back, chastened. Yes, of course. He can see that. He knows that from personal experience. A soldier has to be focused. A soldier in a battle zone has to be sure of what he’s doing, certain of his reasons for doing it. 

As if he’s reading John’s mind, Sherlock says quietly, “I know that you feel your privacy was invaded, but... I also know you understand the importance of staying focused when you’re...in the field. It helped, more than you can know, to know that you were well. To see Mrs Hudson and Lestrade...” 

Sherlock pauses, throat working as he searches for words. “Whenever I knew where I was going next, or whenever I was to be in one place for a long enough length of time, I would let Mycroft know. And he would send me a few photos. When he didn’t know where I was, he would save them until I contacted him. And then, a whole packet would come at once. Knowing that what I was doing kept you safe... Knowing you were alive and well... It kept me focused.” 

He rocks forward a bit and stares at the photo in his hand. “Your face reminded me, every day, that what I was doing was necessary. Every photo reinforced that what I was doing was worthwhile.” 

_Worthwhile_. The word echoes, bouncing off the inside of John’s skull. He gives a strangled half laugh that threatens to become inappropriate giggles. “So photos of me made you a better killing machine?” 

Sherlock twitches, hunching in even tighter on himself. He tucks his chin down so tight that the back of his neck shows above his collar, exposed and vulnerable, white against the stark black silk. 

John regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth, but he can’t undo them. He lays his hand on Sherlock’s back. “Hey... I’m not judging you. It’s just...” 

Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

“I shouldn’t have said it that way, this is all just... I’m a little...unnerved.” John centres his palm on the bony protrusions of Sherlock’s spine and massages gently. “But I’m _not_ judging you. I would have done the same thing. To save you and the others.” He barks another strangled laugh. “Hell, I _did_ kill to save you. And that was before I even knew you, really.” 

Under his fingers, the tension in Sherlock’s spine eases. John pats him gently, urging Sherlock to relax further, until he sees Sherlock’s shoulders edge back and down. Relaxing, just a bit. That expanse of pale neck disappears behind his collar. 

John feels a tiny, surprising pang of regret that he didn’t reach up, stroke the smooth skin when he had the chance. “It was just an odd thought,” he says with a grin, “that my face is so...inspiring.” 

Sherlock huffs a short bark of strained laughter. 

John pulls his hand back and looks at it. 

Just to look at him, Sherlock seems thin, like he’s all angles and bony protrusions. But he _feels_ much more substantial. Strong, ropy muscle and long bones. Body hot enough, even through a layer of shirt, to make John’s fingerprints feel as if the ridges and whorls have puffed up, been made more prominent by the contact. His palm is warm and tingling. 

He rubs the pads of his fingers together. “Wasn’t that dangerous, though? Having these photos with you? Something that could identify you, or give you away...” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I had to have safe places for identities and passports and money. Mycroft saw to it.” He smiles. “It’s possible that I hold the record for most number of countries in which a safe deposit box has been rented.” 

John sucks in a breath to ease the ache in his chest. To think of Sherlock, moving from place to place, always in danger, always looking over his shoulder. And so completely alone. With only his brother and the enemy he was facing in the moment even knowing he was alive. Only grainy photos printed on computer paper to remind him of home... 

Sherlock glances back at him. “I think... I think Mycroft thought I would destroy the photos once I had seen them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I stored them in the safe deposit boxes or my hiding places. And the times that I had to leave without collecting my things, Mycroft would have his contacts collect my papers and destroy them or forward them on if needed. And the box of photos always came with them. I suppose it was dangerous. In a way. But at the time, it seemed...necessary.” 

John’s still looking at his hand, still feeling the sensation of warmth and sparkling energy in his palm. It’s such a contrast with the cold ache in his chest. All this time, he’s been so angry with Sherlock for leaving him, for letting John think he was dead. He hasn’t really considered what it must have been like for Sherlock, being alone, being dead. 

And he realizes...while Sherlock left him behind, left John on his own these last two years,  
even on the other side of the world, with Mycroft’s help, Sherlock had kept John close. 

“Sentiment, Sherlock?” John can’t curb his smile, and he keeps his tone deliberately light and teasing, but he can’t conceal the wonder woven through it. “From Mycroft and you, too?” 

After a moment, Sherlock shakes his head like he’s trying to throw something off. He glances sideways with a lopsided, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, John. I know you don’t care for sentiment in me.” 

Surprise slides into the warmth that’s building in John’s chest. “What? Who says I don’t care for sentiment? In you or anybody?” 

“You called me an ‘alien pod-person’.” Sherlock says it with a smile to show that he’s not angry. 

But John can see the uncertainty behind it. And suspicion floods John. Was old Sherlock—manic and unsocial and clueless—just another gift Sherlock had given him? Sherlock had been different after he came back. Especially those weeks after the marriage break-up, maybe...even before then. Had Sherlock given John his old self back, because he’d thought that was what John needed? 

Would Sherlock have told him this, days ago, weeks ago, if he’d had the opportunity? Had Sherlock left that box of photos out where John was sure to find it? All that weird niceness, when John had first moved back in... He’d thought it was just Sherlock being manipulative. In the nicest sort of way, of course, but still, acting. He’d seen Sherlock do it with other people, put on a mask, turn on the charm, to get what he wanted. 

But maybe it hadn’t been an act. That had been sentiment, too, hadn’t it? That had been Sherlock, glad John was back. That had been Sherlock, changed by almost two years of...doing what he’d done. 

John swallows, feeling suddenly like he’s hanging from the rafters by his fingernails again. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He says softly, almost to himself, “You and Mycroft are right, in a way. Sentiment _is_ a disadvantage. It makes the nights seem longer. It makes even days in harsh sunlight seem colder. But it gave me a focus, a sharpness, that was necessary for—” Sherlock bites back the rest of his sentence, as if he’s finally heard himself speaking. 

The heat slips lower, into John’s belly, warming the blood rushing in his veins and the tips of his fingers and toes. It feels like his whole body has been numb since he first eased the lid of that box open, and now everything’s beginning to warm up. His senses are waking up. 

“Sherlock...” he says huskily, and the palm he presses to Sherlock’s back this time isn’t so impersonal. He runs his hand the length of Sherlock’s spine, strokes across the width of his shoulders. 

Sherlock shivers under his touch, but doesn’t turn around. 

John leans forward and presses his forehead to Sherlock’s back, right at his shoulder. His nose bumps against the line where back meets arm, and he breathes in the scent of Sherlock. Silk shirt warmed by skin. Soap. Warm, sweet sweat. It’s a heady, masculine, tantalizing smell. And he’d rather breathe it than oxygen. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers again. He wants to say more, but the words get all wound up in his head, caught in his throat. Because Sherlock did all this—gave up months and months of his life, risked his life, became a killer—for Greg and Mrs Hudson and for him. Sherlock gave up the person he’d become to be the person he thought John needed. “I never meant I didn’t like you being sentimental. I like you...whichever way you are. I want... I want...” 

And suddenly, like a box has been opened, revealing the treasure inside, the road forward is visible. Stretching out, fine and smooth, ahead of him. And Sherlock is standing in the middle of it, looking back. Hopeful and smiling. Waiting for John. 

But here, in this room of boxes, Sherlock is holding himself so still that he’s near to vibrating with tension. Waiting for John. 

John clears his throat. “I want you,” he says gruffly. The words, so alien to anything he’s ever believed about himself, are shockingly easy to say. “I want you however you are. However you want to be.” 

The muscles in Sherlock’s back shift under John’s fingers, and he wheels, his eyes wild and strange, his expression shocked. Disbelieving. Sherlock twists towards him, sound that’s half groan, half sob coming out of him, moving clumsy and fast. 

John’s so surprised that he rocks back and freezes. 

Their bodies collide, and Sherlock bears John back onto the bed. He covers John’s body with his. Searches with desperate, dry lips for John’s mouth. 

The sudden heaviness across John’s chest flattens the breath out of him, and he grunts. His arm is caught beneath the weight of Sherlock’s body, and it feels like his wrist is warped to the point of breaking. Sherlock’s face grates against his, cheek rough with five o’clock shadow, and it burns John’s skin. But he doesn’t care. If his bones are broken and his skin is stripped from his flesh, he doesn’t care. 

He scrabbles for Sherlock with his free hand. Lips grazing eyebrow, eyelid, cheek, nose. Breath coming short and sharp as he tries clumsily to meet Sherlock’s kiss. And finally, lips on his. Finally. After all this time. Lips on his. Soft, sweet mouth pressing against his. 

After months of pain. Of feeling like he’d dried into a husk so transparent and desiccated he’d blow away in a light breeze. Feeling like his heart had been scooped out of his chest, one painful, bloody spoonful at a time, leaving nothing. Nothing. Finally, there’s this. This wild, soaring feeling. This _life_. 

Sherlock’s mouth on his. Kissing him. Kissing. And it’s dry and desperate. Then wet and desperate. The taste of Sherlock, indefinable, unique, sweet with milk and tea, with the spice of cake, explodes across his tongue. 

This kiss. It’s like sand in his veins. Hot burning sunlight. _This_ should desiccate him, this sensation that’s hotter than the desert. That stings like sand in a windstorm. It’s more dangerous than gunfire, than mortars. It _is_ a mortar. Exploding his heart. Arousal, sweet and tingling, unspools low in his belly. And he realizes he’s rasping words into Sherlock’s mouth. “This. This. Finally. This.” 

“This,” he murmurs, sliding his lips along Sherlock’s jaw. Pressing his face into the curve of Sherlock’s throat. This taste, this scent, silk and skin and musk. “This.” This feels like home. 

He’s moved. And he’s moved—four times in the last three years—from one place to another. Belongings shoved into boxes, then unpacked. Things placed about him, dusted, stacked, hung on hangers. Then repacked while he’s moved again. But all he needed, the whole time, to be home, to be safe, was this. This heartbeat, thundering beneath his lips. This man. 

John can’t wait to lay his head on Sherlock’s naked chest. Feel the warmth. Move his lips across hair so fine that it shows only as glints of red and gold in the lamplight. He can’t wait to lie, still and quiet and warm, with Sherlock’s heart beating against his cheek. With Sherlock’s heart beating against his spine while Sherlock’s arms enfold him. He can’t wait to wake and find that he’s no longer alone in a cold bed. That the person next to him, reaching for him in the cold, morning light is Sherlock. The promise, the possibilities of a future so far removed from anything he’s imagined, unfurl like flowers opening for the morning sun. 

And then Sherlock’s pulling away. Trying to raise up. “This,” Sherlock echoes. “This is not a good idea.” 

John can see the fear starting to trickle in. The wildness is gone from Sherlock’s gaze, replaced by dismay, by that tight, closed-off expression Sherlock always exhibits whenever sentiment threatens his control. New Sherlock threatening to be subsumed back into the old, cool, always-pretending-to-be-in-control one. 

“Forgive me, John.” 

John holds on, fingers digging into Sherlock’s ribs. Feeling the shift and slide of muscle over bone. He remembers Sherlock saying softly, _‘People change, John.’_

Yet it was John who was still clinging to their old ways. Maybe he had needed Sherlock to be who he was. He’d boxed himself in so neatly that he hadn’t even realized it. He hadn’t even known it. Until this moment, when the realization of how much he’s changed, too, smacks him. 

He didn’t even know that he wanted this, but now that he does, he’s not giving it up easily. Not after all he’s been through. After all _they’ve_ been through. To get to this point and let everything slip back to what it was before...it’s not going to happen. Not if he can stop it. 

Sherlock tries again to pull away. Harder this time. Drawing the mask of the old Sherlock back over his features. 

John catches at Sherlock’s ribs, then his shoulder, but his fingers slide off the soft shirt. Sherlock’s shirts are too tight to begin with, and now, with him twisted on the bed, his arm across John, the shirt is drawn across Sherlock’s chest and arms even tighter. John can’t find a place to grip the slick, taut cloth. He gives up and grabs at the collar, at the gap at Sherlock’s throat where the collar is open. He wedges his fingers into the small opening and yanks. 

The first button pops off, ricochets off John’s nose and hits the headboard, bone button pinging on wood, then disappears in the photos scattered across the duvet. Two more buttons pop off, and two more come open, sliding through the buttonholes with the sound of bursting threads, exposing Sherlock from throat to navel. 

“What” John gasps, “is wrong with this idea?” 

Sherlock freezes, hanging over John. 

John winds the fingers of both hands into the finally loose, gaping shirt and holds on. His knuckles are pressed into Sherlock’s chest, thumbs pulling the shirt open even wider. 

His gaze flicks down, taking in the expanse of pale skin with a smattering of freckles. John arches up. Shoves his nose between Sherlock’s neck and his collar and inhales. Presses his lips to the sharp line of clavicle. Meanders down. 

Sherlock draws in a jerky breath and shifts back, out of the reach of John’s mouth. He braces on one knee and his elbows, his arms and hands sliding across the duvet until they’re alongside John’s shoulders and head. “But, John, I thought you wanted— How could you...? You cannot possibly want...” 

“Is that what your brilliant observational skills are telling you?” John smiles up at him, drinking in the way Sherlock’s body is squared over his, not quite touching him. Boxing him in. He rocks his hips, grazing Sherlock’s thigh with his erection, before falling back to the bed. 

Sherlock’s brilliant eyes flare. The pupils dilate, that lovely green/gold swallowed up by black. 

John lets go of his grip on the shirt with one hand so that he can slide it the length of Sherlock’s long torso, graze his palm across the front of those tight black trousers. Make sure that Sherlock really is taken over by sentimentality. That he wants, as much as John wants. 

Sherlock’s mouth opens, his tongue darts out to moisten his lips as John strokes the length of his growing erection. He groans softly as John draws him down, shifting so that their hips align, their cocks align. John rocks up into him, thrusts against him gently.

Sherlock shivers. Tentatively, as if he doesn’t quite believe John, he responds, moving his body against John’s. Lowering himself down carefully, as if he’s not sure he can trust John to bear his weight. “I thought...” he says huskily. “You are quite fond of telling people you’re not gay.” 

John smiles. “Never said I was straight, though, did I?” 

Sherlock tilts his head, surprised and questioning. 

John shrugs. “The reason I’ve protested about my sexuality is because people were making assumptions about me when they didn’t know me. I don’t like...” He pauses and then laughs aloud at the analogy that jumps into his head. “I don’t like being boxed in.” 

He lets go of his grip on Sherlock’s shirt so that he can run his hands over Sherlock’s back. Down his sides. Down to cup that lush, perfect arse. 

Sherlock draws in a shaky breath and shifts against him. Lowers his head to press a tentative kiss to John’s neck. 

John whispers in his ear. “I’ve never had a relationship with a man, but I’ve done a bit of experimenting.” 

And the sound that comes out of Sherlock is like something Sherlock would draw out of his violin. Low and soft and plaintive. 

Pleasure ripples up John’s back. “What about you?” 

“I have...experimented. A bit,” Sherlock admits. 

And John laughs again, just for sheer joy, and clutches Sherlock to him. No matter how suddenly his whole view of the world has changed, he’s still boxed in. By this room and this life. And now his body, too, boxed in by bone and flesh and the warm, musky scent of Sherlock. By sentiment. 

Sherlock pushes back to stare at him. His expression still hovers between uncertainty and stunned disbelief.

John runs his fingers over Sherlock’s face, learning the feel of sharp cheekbones, softness of eyelashes, the lush, soft curve of Sherlock’s mouth. 

John sighs. If someone would just close the flaps over this moment, tape the box shut so that not one instant—not one molecule of Sherlock’s scent, not one ounce of his weight and warmth, not one second of Sherlock’s amazing eyes staring into his—would be lost, then that would be perfect. 

“If you think, for one second, that I’m letting this go...” John works one hand into the edge of Sherlock’s torn-open shirt, presses his palm flat against warm naked skin, cranes up, and presses a kiss to the pale skin in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. He whispers against Sherlock’s breastbone. “If you think I’m letting _you_ go... You’re not as observant as you think you are.” 

Sherlock’s seems frozen with fear. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s going to protest. 

And John says quietly, with as much conviction as he can fit into his voice, “People change, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shudders. The tremor passes over his whole body, making the photos near John’s head shift. He stares at John’s face, gaze fixating on the soft, promising smile John gives him. On John’s mouth. 

And then Sherlock gives one quick, hard twitch of his head, like he’s resetting all the dials in his mind. He smiles, too, still a bit unsure, but determined. Then he looks down at John’s hand, fisted in his shirt, and a haughty, amused mask slips over all the uncertainty that’s crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

“Really, John,” he says, his voice a bit too gruff to carry off the pretend arrogance. “Tearing off my shirt? Must you be so clichéd?” 

John shivers at the way Sherlock keeps looking at his mouth. The way his gaze slips away, then returns, caressing John’s lips while his tongue darts out to moisten the bump at the centre of his own lips. Sherlock looks like he wants more breathless, heartbreaking kisses, and John does, too. But he also knows that Sherlock’s still half poised on the edge of running away. Still not sure that what John is saying is real. 

John smiles, willing to go along with the game. He grins, unremorseful, up at Sherlock. “Then you shouldn’t wear shirts that fit like a second skin. It was the only way I could get a grip on you.” 

Sherlock looks like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or to be affronted. 

John uses his grip on the shirt to draw Sherlock down. He kisses him, a slow, gentle touch of lips that could so easily slide into desperate hunger if he let it go. 

Sherlock kisses him back, but...not quite as enthusiastically this time. He’s still unsure. 

Instinct tells John to tread lightly. With a leisurely press of lips to the corner Sherlock’s mouth, his jaw, then the trembling pulse point beneath his ear, John lets him go. He unwinds his fingers from the soft shirt and holds onto the tip of the collar with only a finger and thumb. 

Sherlock looks a bit shell shocked. Still wavering between laughter and escape. But he manages a teasing smile. “But if I wore shirts that didn’t fit as well, you wouldn’t admire my chest and shoulders as much.” 

John laughs at him softly. “I’d admire your chest and shoulders even if you were wearing a muumuu.” 

Sherlock wrinkles his forehead at the image. 

John grins and rolls his hips, as much as he can with Sherlock’s weight bearing down on him. Just in case Sherlock has forgotten just how much John admires him. 

Sherlock catches his breath, tilts his hips into the contact. 

John tugs gently a the collar he’s still gripping between thumb and forefinger. “Even if it as a great big, flow-y muumuu, with pink flowers and tropical birds. And a lace collar.” 

After a moment, Sherlock smiles, too. And the rest of the tension slips out of his face and he eases back down. Most of his weight is still on his elbows, but he rests his face against John’s shoulder. 

John twists, hand coming up and threading through that incredible hair, gripping lightly to keep Sherlock’s head in place. His bends his neck at an impossible angle so that he can kiss Sherlock again. And again. 

He cups that perfect arse and thinks about sliding into Sherlock. About making him moan. And he moans to think of it. 

Sherlock moans with him, and they move together in a slow rhythm. Bodies pressing, sliding. Cock straining against cock, hot even through layers of fabric. 

John’s breathless and quivering with pleasure, aching. Wanting naked flesh against his own. He’s seconds from tearing at his trousers and Sherlock’s. From making Sherlock’s impeccable clothing as rumpled as his own. 

But as he shifts, the corner of a photo pokes him in the neck. Another crackles beneath his arm. He pulls back. “Why don’t we take this somewhere more comfortable? Your bed, maybe? We’re ruining your photos.” 

Sherlock blinks and looks about him as if he’s surprised at where he finds himself. After a moment, he nods and slides off John. But instead of getting up, he rolls onto his back and lies, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide and unblinking. 

John hates the loss of warmth and closeness, but in honesty, his bad shoulder was starting to ache with the weight, so he doesn’t protest. He just shifts until the side of his body is pressed, shoulder to knee, against Sherlock’s. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his, and Sherlock opens his fingers, twines them with John’s. 

More paper crackles and protests as they move, and John lifts his head to look around them.

There are photos surrounding them, tucked under elbows, shoulders, hips. Another one curls and pokes him in the ear when he drops his head back down. He fishes it out. It’s a photo of him walking alongside the Thames at dusk. His hands are in his pockets and his head is down. He looks...lost and sad. A million light years from this moment. 

He lays it aside. “We’re still ruining your photos.” It doesn’t come out as apologetically as he’d intended. It’s difficult to be apologetic when he’s breathless from kissing Sherlock Holmes. When his heart is beating with a slow, bass throb. When arousal and anticipation and possibilities are curling through him, unfurling in his imagination. When happiness is making him grin, idiotically, at the dusty spiderweb that he’s suddenly noticed in the corner of the ceiling. 

Sherlock twists his head so he can see John. He blinks. Blinks again. His tongue darts out and circles his lips like they’re dry, though they can’t be, because they’re shiny wet with John’s saliva. After a moment, he smiles. “It doesn’t matter,” he says huskily. 

He shifts again, turning on his side, readjusting. Photos crackle and protest as he the slides his body alongside John’s and lays his head on John’s chest. “I don’t need them anymore.” 

He reaches over John and picks up the shoebox that had contained all the photos. Tilts it up on its end and presses, like he’s going to crumple it down flat. 

John catches his hand and stops him. “No, don’t.” He extricates the small box and places it carefully against the headboard, out of harm’s way. Then he twists around to retrieve the lid and tucks it against the pillows, too. He scoops up photos from under his arm and along his side and drops them into the box, moving carefully so that he won’t dislodge Sherlock’s head from his chest. 

But Sherlock raises up onto one elbow to watch what he’s doing. 

“This is one box I’m going to keep,” John tells him. 

Sherlock raises one eyebrow. 

“For sentimental reasons,” John says. 

After a moment, Sherlock nods. And he leans over and drops the photo of John and Greg into it. 

###  
  



End file.
